


Epitaph on a Tyrant

by ishafel



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Clare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-12
Updated: 2010-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after, And the poetry he invented was easy to understand."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epitaph on a Tyrant

It seems, sometimes, that they have been at war forever. They are Nephilim, Shadowhunters, born into battle. But sometimes—sometimes they are happy, in fair green Idris of the rolling hills, Idris the shining country, Idris of the sandy beaches and whitecapped mountains and bright skies. Sometimes they are not soldiers and they are not rebels: sometimes they are children.

Valentine is first among them, always, at play and in the hunt and on the battlefield, but it seems that this is fitting. Of all Idris's brilliant and beautiful children he is the most beautiful and most brilliant, a flame in a hall of swords, truth in time of lies, light in the blackest night. Even when he is angry it is a righteous anger, and he is luminous with it. When he is happy—when he is happy, it is as if they are in the presence of God.

They follow him because they love him. All of them love him, and some of them even believe him. They believe that the world was created for the children of men, and not for the dark things, the wild things, the things that live on the edges or in the shadows. Some of them even believe that not all who are born have a right to live. All of them believe in monsters.

The walls of Valentine's house are lined with books. There are no pictures of his family; there are no weapons on the walls. It is not a hunter's house, it is a scholar's. Valentine is not a hunter, either: he is a killer. They know this, they know what they have allied themselves with, and they love him anyway.

It seems, sometimes, that they have been playing at war their whole lives, waiting for a general who will break them and reform them in his own image. They know, because Valentine tells them, that only monsters can kill monsters. They trust him because they love him, and they love him because they are children. The war was begun long before they were born, but they will bring it to Idris, they will fight it on the rich dark soil of ploughed fields, in the quiet of the forests, on the white sand by the sea, in the Glass City.

Every tragedy in the history of humankind comes down to love, and this one is no different.


End file.
